Empire of Dirt
by Darwin's Ape
Summary: *Slash-ish* C/A - Mental note: mortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.


Author: Katy (Darwin's Ape)

Title: Empire of Dirt

Beta: Mel, who rocks (and also writes damn well - La Corneille - http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=91878 ). All mistakes, however, are mine (especially the shifting viewpoints, which I kinda like :p ).

Rating: Very weak 15 (=R) for language.

Category: C/A, angst.

Archive: Wherever. Just tell me?

Disclaimer: Not mine. Everything good in here belongs to Pterry and/or Gneil and if either of them object in any way then I will delete this story from the database and "dispose" of anyone claiming to remember it. Title's taken from NIN's Hurt, so sorry about that, too.

Notes: I wanted a nice PWP. I didn't get one. Instead I stole ruthlessly not only from Good Omens but also from Pterry's (Discworld's) "Eric" and Gneil's (Sandman's) "A Hope In Hell". Um, if you've never read The Sandman Series, do, and also know that Morpheus is Dream, an Endless One like Death, Destiny, Desire, etc. 

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The artists formerly known as The Sex Pistols but currently, thanks to powers greater than mortal minds (and Crowley) could comprehend, posing as Queen put forward a version of "We Will Rock You" on the demon's car stereo. Enough of the original tape remained that the song had more swearwords than Crowley remembered, but he wasn't really paying attention. Somehow, fantasies of him, the angel and a large tub of chocolate sauce kept on interrupting any musings as to the original Queen lyrics. And there also seemed to be an incessant reminder interrupting those fantasies, in the form of a voice that itself reminded him uncomfortably of an angel he once knew, that he wasn't just interested in 'Zira's body.

But suddenly, that became less important.

"CRAWLY," the distorted electronic voice began as Hell's latest attempt at electronic communications reared its technophobic head.

"Yeah?" He stopped short of adding "What do you want?" but only just.

"WE KNOW ...in the street...ABOUT YOUR PACT WITH THE ANGEL."

Freddie Mercury reminded Crowley that he was a big disgrace.

"Yeah?"

"AND WE KNOW THAT YOU HARBOUR UNDEMONIC FEELINGS TOWARDS HIM."

...boom boom buh!...

"AND WE WISH TO OFFER YOU A CHOICE."

A choice? Shit, that business with Lord Mo- with *That* Endless One had messed things up in Hell. A choice?

"EITHER YOU CAN RENOUNCE THESE FEELINGS AND YOUR PLACE ON EARTH AND JOIN US BACK IN HELL FOR A VERY COMFY DESK JOB ...singing we will... OR YOU CAN BECOME MORTAL. YOU WILL BE FREE TO PURSUE YOUR ANGEL -" Crowley wondered when he'd become resigned to the fact that no one would ever believe him that 'Zira really wasn't *his* angel. "- IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT HASTUR HAS SET FOUR THOUSAND YEARS ASIDE TO TALK YOU THROUGH THAT HOLIDAY HE ALMOST WENT ON BUT DIDN'T QUITE BECAUSE OF SOME MIX UP IN THE FLIGHTS -" Was it Crowley's imagination, or did this particular voice of Hell seem less committed to the new regime of torture by extreme boredom than might be desired? "- JUST TO BE SURE IT HAS THAT PERSONAL TOUCH WHEN YOU RETURN TO HELL AS JUST ANOTHER SINNER."

The obscenity Crowley thought before considering his options translates literally as an action so illegal in this country that even writing it down gets you a mandatory five-year jail sentence. His choice seemed to be between a few more years in 'Zira's company and no more years in 'Zira's company. Not to mention (whisper it) the added bonus of mortal/angel relationships being marginally less sinful on the angel's part than demon/angel relationships. 

"What's the catch?"

"SURELY YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO ASK US THAT."

Nyeh. "Yeah, okay then, humanity it is. You only live once."

"INDEED."

And then Freddie Mercury burst through again, the strains of "Bohemian Rhapsody" erasing the harsh memory of the Hell minion's voice. 

That was odd. 

A traffic light. And it was red. What did that mean again? For the first time since Crowley had "liberated" his perfect Bentley, he had to stop at a red light. Something was seriously wrong with the natural order of things. Let's see: he appeared to have just renounced his immortal status for the sake of an angel he wasn't even sure loved him in return (just a minor point, that) and now traffic lights were turning red on him. He blinked. No, still red. Mental note: mortality isn't all it's cracked up to be. 

He managed the rest of the journey to his angel's bookshop (not even his subconscious would listen to him when he feebly protested that 'Zira really wasn't his angel) displaying an impressive knowledge of give way signs and roundabouts for a driver who'd had permanent right of way for the past few decades. It became a little less impressive when you considered that he and Aziraphale had co-written the Highway Code, but it wasn't every day Crowley became mortal, so he felt he deserved some credit. 

Parking his car where he knew it would be safe from theft, simply because he knew it to be so, he walked down the alley that led to 'Zira's shop. 

"I am holding right next to your neck," a voice by his ear informed him, "a syringe containing blood infected with AIDS." Somehow, Crowley could never quite bring himself to be proud of that one. "Either you can give me your money or you can take your chances when I inject some of this into one of your veins."

Crowley was being mugged. This didn't happen to Crowley. He didn't get mugged; his car didn't get thieved - OH SHIT! THE BENTLEY! - and his house didn't get burgled. Oh.

Shit.

"I don't have any money on me."

"C'mon. Nicely dressed man such as yourself must have some ready cash on him. Swish sunglasses and all, you know." Not that the sunglasses were necessary, Crowley realised. Not any more. 

"I said, I don't have any money on me. Got, um, mugged earlier today."

"I don't think I believe you. And I *know* I don't like your tone of voice. Going to have to learn a little respect, aren't we?"

Where the Hell's some divine interventions when you need it, if you'll pardon the pun?

"A-hem." Ah. There we go. But… W'j'fck? Even with sunglasses, the angel's glow hurt Crowley's now-mortal eyes. His very presence seemed to make the other's muscles ache. Aziraphale didn't seem to be having quite the same effect on Crowley's would-be mugger until the angel blinked a couple of times and the world, or at least the part with the ex-demon in, was a better place, at least for the ex-demon.

"My syringe! You bastard! You…"

No more mugger in dark alleyway. All that was left was one knight in shining armor and one mortal, cowed by the overwhelming force radiating (one might even say shining, were one looking for eternal damnation) from the aforementioned knight.

"'Zira," Crowley began, "it's not that I'm not immeasurably glad to see you right now," Aziraphale smiled, "but what exactly is it that's hurting me right now?"

"Sorry?"

"As you might have noticed, Hell and I had a minor disagreement as to behaviour deemed becoming in a demon and so I am now mortal." Perhaps that particular understatement needed a little embellishment. "Ta-da!" There, that did the trick.

"It…"

"Suits me?"

"Why?"

"Buggered if I know. One minute I was happily driving along, listening to Queen, the next Hell's offering me a choice."

"A choice??"

"That's what I thought. But the nicer option was this, so here I am, in a fair degree of pain for a reason I can't quite fathom."

"What happens when you die?"

"I go to Hell. I guess Hastur has some fun in store for me, but eventually he'll get as bored as me and they'll return to poking me with sharp sticks."

"Shit." If Crowley had only known a few hundred years ago that all he need do to make 'Zira swear was become mortal, he might not have invested so much time and effort in the Spanish Inquisition.

"Indeed."

"Crowley, why are you cringing away from me?"

"As you might recall, you seem to be causing me considerable amounts of pain."

"Oh."

A translation of the last part of this conversation might read as follows:

"What happens when you die? Oh my God, you're going to die. Holy buggering fuck, you're going to die. Please don't leave me."

"When I die, I leave you. But don't make me say it out loud. It hurts too much."

"I don't want you to leave me."

"I don't want to leave you."

"Crowley, what's wrong? Why are you scared of me? Don't leave me. Please don't leave me."

"I don't know. 'Zira, I'm scared. Don't let me leave you."

"I'm scared too."

Back on a plane of reality accessible to everyone, the angel was trying to work out what it was that was hurting the ex-demon. 

"Let me see. You've only been mortal for a few hours, isn't that so?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not quite so adept at denial as most of humanity."

"I don't know," Crowley didn't say out loud. "I'm not sure how many humans managed to spent the entire eighteenth century convincing themselves they weren't in love with you." Out loud, he only said, "I've done a fair bit of denial in my time, I think."

"Yes, well, that's as may be. But you are unable to reproduce the human denial normally associated with the supernatural."

"You mean, I can't convince myself that you're a mild-mannered bookshop owner by day *and* by night?"

"Pretty much, yes. I think humanity's denial shields it from the more unpleasant effects of mortal-immortal interaction."

Mortal-immortal interaction? Crowley dragged his mind slowly and painfully back up from the gutter. "But I've met mortals who've been aware of what I am. So have you."

"The force of denial was strong in them."

Was that a pop-culture reference from Team Supernatural? Surely not. But Crowley was dimly aware that he had more important problems to consider than whether Aziraphale had been watching Star Wars without him. 

"Angel." Somehow he managed to keep the bitterness and fear from his voice, even when that familiar term of endearment took on extra meaning. "Angel, spell this out for me."

"Crowley…" How could anyone fit so much pain into one word?

"Okay, I understand. But humour me for a minute?" And with that, Crowley stepped forward and attempted to touch the angel. It hurt like Hell, and Crowley should know. He stepped back. The pain became bearable again. "'Zira, I think it's fine unless I actually touch you. That's good, isn't it?"

No, not really. It just made the whole bargain that little bit crueler. How could he tell the angel he loved him now? "Darling, I love you. Betcha celibacy's never felt so good." Not that it would have been fair anyway. "Darling, I love you. Watch me die before your eyes." In fact, Crowley was being really uncharitable (which, he realised, was no longer part of the job description) to the angel - even if Aziraphale cared about that sort of thing, if he loved Crowley he wouldn't mind. And he probably did love Crowley, just Not In That Way (Crowley had spent a whole fortnight crafting the very first "I love you, I'm just not *in* love with you" and so could recognise the signs a mile off). 

The ex-demon's mood spiraled further downwards as he realised that, were he to tell 'Zira, the angel would probably pretend to love him out of pity. Forty odd years humouring a dying man he had once cared for would mean nothing to an immortal being, especially as he now couldn't even be asked to consummate that "love". 

"Yes, that's good." No, not really. How could never being able to hold his best friend, his soulmate, his everything ever again be good? How could never being able to comfort a dying man be good? How could losing the one being he cared most about in any plane of existence be good? Dammit, now he could never tell the demon (ex-demon) he loved him. It would look like he was only prepared to admit his love once he knew he wouldn't Fall because of it. And what right did he have to fill the last years of a dying being's life with the pain of not being able to requite another's love? Sodding buggering fucking bloody Hell. 

And what power would Hell have, as the Dream Lord once asked, if those imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?

-

A few years passed, going by far more quickly than either of them had thought possible. Deciding he could do nothing to incur even more of Hell's wrath, Crowley had started to bat for the other team, as it were. He and his angel spent their time making the world a better place, apart from on Tuesdays when they spent it tempting and corrupting the innocent and pure, just for a change of pace. 

-

Enough years passed for the signs of aging on Crowley's face to be apparent. Looking him next to his angel, no casual observer would have thought they were the same age. Admittedly, no casual observer would have thought they were several millennia old, either, but that's what we get for living in such a fickle and faithless world. 

-

Cancer. 

The angel knew, of course, and admirably told him within a week of discovering it. They consulted a doctor who told him that he and his son were very lucky that the tumour had been caught so early: treatment at this time had an 85% chance of success. Shorten that perhaps to 75% for gentlemen over a certain age and the outlook was still very positive. And that's good, isn't it?

-

"Angel." Still a term of endearment, never yet a term of reproach. One of these days, Aziraphale would have to ask him how he managed that. Would tomorrow do? "Angel, I don't want to live like this."

Bite back the response of "it'll be over soon," Angel. 

"'Zira, you know, don't you?"

No. "What, dear?"

Don't make me say it out loud. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I just can't live like this."

"No, it does matter. Please tell me what's wrong."

"Angel, nothing's wrong but the inoperable tumour in my neck." That came out a bit harsher than he'd meant.

"I'm sorry," they chorused. 

"Well, at least we agree on something."

"Angel, was that cynicism?" Crowley's voice radiated pride. It had become more and more painful for him to be near Aziraphale as his illness had progressed but he was determined to spend every moment possible with his angel. 

Said angel was exercising an equal amount of willpower in not just hugging the poor darling former shell of the demon he once knew and never letting go. He wanted to make it all better, had said every prayer in every book just to give his Crowley a chance. But Heaven was adamant that this was Hell's affair and anyway, after the Treaty of 1943, cancer was neither Heaven nor Hell's jurisdiction any more. If Aziraphale wanted to go crawling to The Endless Ones, however… But Crowley had forbidden it and his angel could not bring himself to leave his soulmate against his wishes even for a minute now, with the end so near.

"Angel, every choice I've ever made brought me pain. I got thrown out of Heaven, I nearly caused the end of the world and I even got a terminal case of mortality. But every choice I've ever made brought me closer to you, Aziraphale. And so I'm going to make my last choice. I love you, Angel. Kiss me?"

What could his angel do? Taking the mortal in his arms, Aziraphale drew him in close. They kissed for a moment, a lifetime, an age, pain blossoming and spreading through Crowley's very being. The angel felt the sudden loss as the other's life-force slipped away. With a sigh, he realised that he'd never even told Crowley that his angel loved him, too.

---------------------------------Fin-------------------------------- 


End file.
